All Our Treasures Together
by Fatal Drum
Summary: After the fall, Hannibal and Will share an uneasy truce. Hannibal discovers that Will is still able to surprise him. Inspired by Pablo Neruda's "Ode to Broken Things." (Hannigram, featuring poetry nerd!Will)


Inspired by "Ode to Broken Things" by Pablo Neruda. Dedicated to my kindly beta, inter_spem_et_metum, with whom I've enjoyed discussing our poetry nerd!Will headcanons.

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Rain pelted the roof of the cottage, beating a steady rhythm on the clay tile. It fell in a sheet past the open window and brought a chill to the air inside. Hannibal paused with his hand on the window frame to savor the satisfaction that came from being tucked safely in a dry house when rain shivered from a charcoal sky.

He turned to regard Will, curled in a battered velvet chair with his ankle propped against his knee and his chin in his hand. His hair had grown long enough to brush the edges of his collar. If the length bothered him, he did not say; perhaps he simply hesitated to allow Hannibal near him with anything sharp. Stubble lined his cheeks, not quite obscuring the thick pink scar.

Will licked a finger and turned the page. "It's rude to stare." he said without looking up.

"I suppose it is." Hannibal let his gaze linger on Will's intent face. "Tell me, what are you reading?"

Eyes still tracing the lines, Will lifted the book high enough for Hannibal to glimpse the title.

Surprises were rare for Hannibal. He turned this one over in his head, let it slot into his image of the man who shared his exile. Someday Will would cease to surprise him.

He had not decided what would happen once that occurred.

"I wasn't aware you enjoyed poetry."

Will shrugged, glancing at him over the rim of his glasses. "Not that many options."

The previous tenants had left a small assortment of books, mostly paperback romances and mysteries. This was not the first time Hannibal had seen this particular book in Will's hands, however. Sensing something beneath the silence, he waited until Will added, "I double majored. Criminal justice and literature."

"Fiction allows us to explore other perspectives. It must have been a relief to know you were not alone in wearing others' skin."

Will swallowed, abandoning the pretense of reading as Hannibal stepped closer. He laid his hand on the arm of the chair, inches from Will's elbow, framing the other man's body from behind the chair.

Touch was a rarity between them. Any peace they had bought with the dragon's death seemed to have faded once they washed up on the shore. The connection between them stretched taut, filled the spaces between them with an almost palpable tension, but Hannibal knew himself to be an incredibly patient man. He could wait a while longer.

"Read it to me."

"Are you _that_ bored, Hannibal?"

"Verse was meant to be read aloud. The rhythm and shape of the words is as important as their meaning."

Will straightened from his curled position, placing his feet on the floor. "I'm not any good at it."

"I don't expect a performance." He leaned down, just short of brushing Will's curls with his mouth. "If you would. For me."

Will sighed and shifted in his chair, clearing his throat. Hannibal savored his discomfort. It was delicious to know Will would do this for him, and so much more.

 _"Things get broken, at home, like they were pushed..."_ Will spoke the words with a passionless precision, a dry rhythm that scraped the inside of Hannibal's chest. He could see the moment Will lost himself in the words, forgot Hannibal's scrutiny and settled into the world shaped between his lips.

The words were unfamiliar; Hannibal's tastes in literature tended toward the classical, and he rarely bothered with anything written in this century. Modern poetry had abandoned form and aesthetics in favor of novelty. It seemed far too well pleased with itself. The words themselves, however, were nothing compared to the sensation of hearing them in Will's voice.

Hannibal did not realize he had reached out until he felt the warmth of Will's throat beneath his fingertips. Will swallowed but continued to read, his voice a steady rumble that Hannibal could feel. His stubble scraped Hannibal's skin with each movement.

He curled his fingers, feeling the flesh give slightly. Strange to think that so much of himself was locked inside this fragile body, with its air that fed two lungs and carried Will's thoughts to him. It would be a moment's work to stop that air forever, to resurrect his old existence untouched by compassion's sharp sting.

Will swallowed as Hannibal's grip began to restrict his airflow. The touch was firm enough to cause discomfort, but the stream of words continued, hoarse:

 _"_ _Let's put all our treasures together—the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold—into a sack and carry them to the sea..."_

Hannibal imagined the two of them together in the roaring surf, pictured the smashed shards of the teacup pitching around them, refusing to mend. He released his grip and stroked the skin beneath his fingers.

Will inhaled more deeply, his shoulders relaxing a fraction as he finished the poem. _"May whatever breaks be reconstructed by the sea, with the long labor of its tides."_ He paused, licking his lips. _"So many useless things which nobody broke, but which got broken anyway."_

They remained together in the wake of the words, Will breathing steadily under Hannibal's hand. The rain continued to beat down outside their dry little world.

"How long is this going to last?" Will asked, staring out into the rain.

"You will need to be more specific." Hannibal leaned down closer to Will's shoulder. The scent of honey and cloves drifted from his hair, and beneath it, the clean sharp smell of Will's own skin.

"The wolf dwelling with the lamb, I suppose."

"I did not take you for a Biblical man."

"I'm not."

Hannibal felt the rise and fall beneath his hand as Will breathed.

"I have no frame of reference for this. But I will say that I thought of you every day for three years, and the thought of you never staled."

"You had your image of me. The reality might not compare."

"My image of you did not read poetry."

He imagined prying open Will's skull, probing for secrets with his bloody fingers until he had devoured every one whole. So much more convenient if such things were possible. There would be no more surprises to scrape him raw.

"So many shards between us." Will murmured. "Teacups and clocks and plates."

"We took them together with us into the sea."

Will sighed, tilting his head back. The motion pushed his throat against Hannibal's palm. "It feels like we're still in it, fighting the undertow."

"Who says we need to fight it?"

Will turned his gaze on Hannibal. "We might drown."

"We might." Hannibal conceded. "Or we might be reconstructed by the sea, with the long labor of its tides."

"Some things are made to break."

"Then perhaps we shall be formed into something entirely new."

Will reached up to uncurl the hand from his throat and used it to pull himself up. He stood close enough for Hannibal to feel the heat of his body as he stared at their laced fingers.

"We can't get any more broken than this, can we?" Will asked.

"I think not."

Hannibal allowed himself to be pulled tight against Will's body. The cool air around them made every place they touched seem to burn.

When their lips met, he could taste the salt of the roiling sea and feel the waves breaking against his skin. Their mouths moved together, exploring, as they sank beneath the surf.


End file.
